RODENT CONFERENCE BLUES

The Rodent Conference is getting me down a bit. I was thinking about it last night, while transfixed by the kitchen floor. Sammy was busy cleaning and washing up, and talking about how we can't leave anything on the sides.

I was just getting more and more depressed.

We now have traps set. A little peanut butter, a little chocolate - baited into a spring-loaded catch. And apart from that two-second dash the other night, the little blighter hasn't been seen. I reluctantly got in touch with Georgio.

"Just bring in one of the rat boxes," he said on the phone, "And leave it with a breadcrumb on top of it yes? To see if they take the bait."

I can't do that. My wife doesn't want me to touch the rat boxes. I was thankful though that we didn't have to call him out. I like Georgio from Ratbusters, but I don't want to see him any more than I absolutely have to.

In my kitchen-floor reflections, I was pondering the real problem. Two seconds of a tiny darting mouse was dominating everything in the house, and had upset all my reliance on systems. I like systems - you know where you are if you have a system: knives and forks go in the top drawer, you run the dishwasher when it's full, you close the fridge properly, you rinse things well and don't leave them on the side - it all makes sense. But then a whirlwind happens, or a topsy-turvy party, or a mus musculus shoots under your washing machine, and suddenly all your systems are interrupted.

That, I do not like. It's like trying to play a song without any idea of what key it's in - scales won't help you till you figure it out; the notes are all just a jumble of black and white levers. And that's frustrating when you know you're a pretty good piano player and you can definitely do better.

And that's what's happened, I think. I've temporarily lost track of the systems. At the moment, the bread's in a plastic tub, the butter's in the lounge; no cutlery or crockery can be left out for any reason, and the pots and pans and roasting dishes are living inside the oven. There are a dozen things to remember, and I can't rely on my old-way of thinking, and it's all the fault of a two-inch long, two-second-quick rodent, who might, or might not be here any more, and who might, or might not be part of a much larger gang of pesky mice, waiting to chew through the back of the washing machine and poo in the sink.